


Old Griefs and Lost Saints

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, smatterings of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3920779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night of the Princess Shireen's wedding, Stannis and Davos don't have a conversation but get some things said anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Griefs and Lost Saints

Had it not been for the flurries of snow that blew in his face, Stannis could have almost pretended that the wind was howling around Storm’s End and not Winterfell. His wife had fought hard for their daughter’s wedding to take place in the capital or at their home in the Stormlands. She had taken her fill of snow and ice and bitter cold. Stannis had told the child to decide for herself. The day was hers, in the end. She had chosen her future husband’s home as the place. 

The North, it seemed, had ensnared her in more ways than one.

“Uncle?”

Stannis turned to find Robert standing there, as young and whole as he once had been, before the war and before…well just before.

No – no, not Robert. Edric. His nephew, Edric. Not Robert. As of late, Stannis had found his mind playing such tricks on him.

“What is it, boy?”

“Uncle, Lord Seaworth searches for you. He worries that you left the feast too early.”

“Lord Seaworth would do well to save his concerns for some other cause,” Stannis grumbled, “Tell him I am well. He may join me if he wishes to see for himself.”

Edric clattered off down the stairs, his black cloak billowing behind him. Soldiers of the Kingsguard no longer wore the white that had been so soiled by the years of the Lannister regime. Edric had chosen the black of House Baratheon, the house he had longed to be a member of for so long. Even Stannis had not missed the look of pride on the boy’s face as he was knighted Ser Edric Baratheon. That had been Davos’ idea, another excellent suggestion to say the least.

It did not take long for his Lord Hand to find him; no doubt he had all of the young men out looking for the king, waiting for one of them to bring him the message. Time had slowed even Lord Davos, these days, where once his life at sea had made him fearsomely and endlessly energetic. Sometimes Stannis did not believe he knew where the years had gone.

“Your grace, your nephew said I could find you up here.”

Stannis did not turn but simply stayed, looking out from the battlements. Winterfell stood in a land of peace now, but he could still hear the clash of swords and the screams of the dying, echoing around the castle. He wondered if he would always hear them now, the price of the crown that he wore on his head.

Davos crossed the battlement behind him, his footsteps quiet in the fallen snow, and Stannis felt his hands rest on his shoulders, just for a second. A cloak. Davos had brought him a cloak.

“Edric said you may be cold,” he said, by way of explanation, moving to the king’s side and placing his hands flat on the low wall. His fingers flexed in the snow, marring the handprints he had made. Stannis watched him, a flicker of curiosity in his breast; sometimes Davos could have such a childish delight in the mundane. It was not a thing you would expect from a man who had been toughened by war.

And Davos had been hardened by it, that much was true. He spoke a little sharper these days, had a little less of the patience that had once tempered Stannis’ own lack of willing to let people make their mistakes and learn their lessons. Davos was thinner too, half starved for almost as long as Stannis had been, and the cold of the Wall and the land beyond had given his skin the same permanent windblown and cold bitten redness that so many of them now shared. He was no more cynical though, not really, and he had learned to laugh again, eventually. He had weathered the storm much better than his king had. 

He had not been ruined by the horrors of war.

“My nephew presumes too much,” Stannis said, although he did pull the cloak a little closer around him, “And you worry too much. I am not some wandering child. I know this place as well as you do.”

“The princess asked for you,” Davos said, still looking at his hands in the snow, “The queen has retired for the evening and I believe the princess wishes for a parents to join her at the high table for the cake.”

“I do not like cake.”

“I know, your grace. I dare say she knows it too.”

There was amusement in Davos’ voice and Stannis looked at him quickly. He still did not know when he was being mocked. Davos schooled his face and swallowed the laughter.

“I think she would just like your company, your grace. A wedding day is trying for any young bride, even a princess.”

“She has her husband. He will grow into a fine man, you tell me. She does not ever have to be in want of company again.”

“Aye, that could be true. But you are her father and she asked for you.”

Davos’ voice hadn’t changed but Stannis knew very well when an argument had been lost.

“She only had to ask,” he mumbled, “No pretence was needed.”

Neither of them moved though; Stannis would go when he decided he was ready and Davos would not leave without him, not now he had almost completed his task of rounding him up.

“I suppose they are all well into their cups?” Stannis asked. He hated parties, despised the crush of people who were out of control on ale and wine, people who all too often should have known better. He only tolerated this one today because it was for Shireen. Otherwise he would have declined to attend.

“Some are,” Davos admitted, “But many have already retired. The princess and Lord Rickon are behaving themselves, and the Kingsguard too. Perhaps you would be proud of them, your grace.”

“And you, Davos? You are not drunk? I saw you partake an ale or two?”

“Only two, your grace. My king does not care for drunkards. I have been in a state like that for as many years as I have served him.”

Stannis knew he was being needling, trying to provoke a response from his Hand, although he was not entirely sure what the response was that he so desired.

“Such loyal service you have given me, my Lord Hand,” he snapped, “How much you must have suffered for it.”

It was the wrong thing to have said, and Stannis knew it the moment it had passed his lips. Davos was looking at him with such – such – hurt in his eyes that Stannis had to look away. The silence was so palpable that Stannis could feel it hanging there and he did not know if he could wait as he normally would for Davos to break it.

“Davos-”

“No, your grace. I – I know you meant to jest. I was just a little surprised, is all.”

“Do not forgive me!” Stannis barked, slamming his hands onto the balustrade in a shadow of Davos’ own, “I spoke wrongly. You of all men known suffering because – because of me.”

His chest was tight and he could not breathe, standing there and waiting for Davos to answer him once more. He never spoke out of turn, never let the control go even for a second. And now he had and Davos was silent besides him and perhaps he would leave now, as all people eventually left and –

Davos’ hand had moved, laying over his, and when Stannis dared to turn and look, Davos’ face was close to his, studying him carefully. 

It was too close. Much too close.

Stannis tried to turn away again but Davos’ maimed hand caught his chin gently and kept it in place. He could feel Davos’ breath misting in the space between them and oh gods, he could almost taste it. He closed his eyes and when he spoke, he did not know his own voice.

“Davos, please-”

He did not know for what he asked.

It seemed that Davos did.

The first touch of Davos’ lips was cold, because the night was freezing and so were they. The second was warm, so warm. 

“Davos,” Stannis murmured against his mouth, “What-”

“The years have been hard,” Davos whispered, his voice low, his fingers entwined in Stannis’, “But I chose my path. My boys-” his voice wavered, “My boys chose theirs.”

“They chose me,” Stannis said faintly, his heart beating too fast, so fast he thought he might faint. Davos had…he’d…had he imagined it? Was he dreaming?

“Stop,” Davos shook his head, “Please stop. I do not blame you, your grace. I could never and would never blame you.”

And then he kissed him again, and Stannis knew it must be real, because he was so cold but Davos was warm and his hand was in Stannis’ hair, holding so tight it almost hurt. Never, in any dream he ever had, had Stannis’ imagination been that good. And he especially knew, beyond all doubt, that he would never have pre-empted the tears on Davos’ face.

Tentatively, when Davos pulled away from him, Stannis reached up and caught one of the errant drops on his fingers. He could not remember the last time he had cried.

“You weep, my Lord Hand. Why?”

“I do not know,” Davos said, “For my boys, perhaps. For myself. For you.”

He turned away, to wipe at his face and compose himself. Stannis wanted to tell him that he did not mind the tears. He did not say a word. Instead he waited.

“I am sorry, my king,” Davos muttered, turning back, his face red from more than the cold, “I do not know what came over me. Your wife-”

“Sleeps on unaffected, as does yours.”

Davos gave a small quirk of his eyebrows, and for a second he looked like a young man who had saved Storm’s End, a thousand years ago.

“Just know, your grace. Nothing that has happened in your service, I regret. Nothing.”

He put such emphasis on the last word that even Stannis was not ignorant to his meaning. He wanted to return the sentiment but paused too long and Davos had already turned away, heading back to the stairs. The moment was slipping away and, in a fit of desperation, Stannis came up close behind him and kissed his cheek, awkward but gentle, and he felt Davos’ breath leaving him in a quiet groan. 

Then Stannis was past him and down the stairs quickly, stopping only long enough to turn around and look Davos in the eye.

“I will never regret you, Lord Davos. Not for a single moment."

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from the wonderful Elizabeth Barrett Browning.


End file.
